


First and Last

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Firsts, M/M, Major Character Death Sort Of, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a first time for everything. Even death.</p><p>Translated into <a href="https://ficbook.net/readfic/4261757">Russian</a> by Little_Unicorn</p>
            </blockquote>





	First and Last

There are many firsts in a lifetime, some marked by occasion with parties and celebrations or just written on a calendar. Others are barely noticed let alone acknowledged as they slip by, fleeting images, sights or smells, drifting through one’s thoughts, vague déjà vu shudders on the surface of the skin.

 

It’s funny when you are at your last, the firsts crowd in, fill your thoughts and flood your brain cells with their need to be noticed one last time before they wink out of existence as your brain slowly shuts down. John Watson has had many firsts, some stand out sharp and bright, coloured vibrant and rich, others pale & muted. They come in a neat and tidy order, surprising as the life in question stops quite messily.

 

John’s first memory is of sunlight on his, he assumes, bedroom wall. He knows he is young, maybe younger than two and someone picks him up and comforts him. It is his mother, and he can smell her perfume. A first lost tooth is next the wiggle and play of it, the odd taste on his tongue when it comes out, and he pokes it in the empty socket. The first day of school he holds his mother’s hand, his a bit sweaty, hers cool, a pat on his head, no hug because he already follows his father’s command, backed with a slap of ‘be a man’ and ‘don’t cry’. The first time he won a rugby match, he arrives home, eager to share the news, to the crash of a plate against the wall. Dad, drunk, shouts and hits him for barging in, a purple bruise blooms on his cheek. Mum, lost in a haze of fear, does nothing to stop the beating that follows.

 

The taste of his first drink, cheap stuff at a party, burns his throat, not what he expects, but he learns to like. It leads to his first kiss, and he enthusiastically snogs Stacey Simmons at her door, her father’s shadow on the frosted glass. He snogs her much older brother with more fervour months later, in the back of Brian’s car, the smell of sweat and the stale odour of cigarettes overflowing the ashtray and permeates the air. It’s sweet and clumsy, and John shouts and comes much too early as Brian sucks him down. Brian leaves for the army and never returns. John is violently sick when he hears the news.

 

He remembers the first time he delivers a baby and the first time he sends one of his own home in a box. Indelibly seared into his brain is the first time he shoots and kills someone. He tastes the tang of sweat, fear and the iron of too much blood. After, he lies on his bunk and shakes with terror and adrenalin crash. He doesn’t remember making his way back. Sholto comes in and sits with him and offers no false platitudes or reassurances of how it gets easier. The nightmares come to play and haunt the dark nights. A bullet shatters his shoulder. It pierces flesh, burns hot. Considering all of the action he has seen, it is his first significant injury.

 

He definitely remembers the first time he lays eyes on Sherlock Holmes. He definitely remembers the way his senses came back to life, remembers with startling clarity the chase after the cab, the smell of wet pavement, the stretch of muscles as he runs and jumps, the bubble of laughter afterward, giggles ring out in the entryway and Angelo is at the door with a forgotten cane.

 

Their first kiss, sweet and slow, unhurried, a long time coming. The passion has always been there, always safely tucked away, rises to the surface, crashes over them. He pushes Sherlock on to the bed, takes his time to undress him, wants to savour this first sight. His hand trails up the perfect skin, and he wonders that he is allowed to touch, to hold, to cherish. He captures Sherlock’s mouth and groans into the kiss. His mouth tastes of danger and exhilaration. He laughs; elation tumbles out between them and fills him. A rush of their subsequent encounters swarm up, and they make love and run riot with the thrill of each other.

 

He remembers many wonderful, wonderful things.

 

His last thought, the last one he will have, is how much he loves Sherlock and how much he will miss him. Sherlock bends over him and tears fall onto John. Sherlock is a mess of untamed emotion. There is rage at the gunman who carelessly shot him, leaving him to bleed out, anger at John for daring to die, words spill from his mouth, he tells John to ‘hold on’ and ‘shut up’, and ‘you are not dying’.

 

Cold has already seeped into his extremities and with great difficulty, he slurs his last words to Sherlock, “Shr’l, love…”

 

And he dies on the floor of an alley somewhere in London. For the first time.

 

Sitting on a bench in a park, the sun shining on his face, a warm breeze and birds trill as if their hearts would burst, John looks around. A puzzled frown creases his face, and he wonders how he got here. It all looks and feels vaguely familiar.

 

“You must be wondering about all of this.” A bright figure sits beside him. He doesn’t recognize them, although there is a vague feel of Stamford about them and a sense they have been there all this time. “Feeling a bit confused. Most usually are at first.”

 

John stands, looks at the figure as best he can and says, “Right, then, send me back, now.”

 

“Yes, most ask that right off, but…”

 

“No. No. You will send me back, and you will do it right now, or I swear to God…”

 

“You’ll what? Shoot me?” the entity’s laugh is mirthful and meant to be soothing, but John is tired. After all, he died today and Sherlock must be frantic with worry. Lestrade and Mycroft won’t be able to handle him.

 

“No, of course not, but I will make it very difficult for you.”

 

“Now don’t be ridiculous. Once you come with me and we get you settled…”

 

“No.”

 

“But…”

 

“No”

 

A sigh, “Oh very well. I told them you wouldn’t come without him. But they didn’t listen.” A rueful shrug. “I suppose there is still time. It won’t be easy.”

 

“At what point has anything in my life easy?” John asks, his head tilts to one side. “I love Sherlock Bleeding Holmes.”

 

A chuckle. “Close your eyes and think of home.”

 

“No clicking my heels three times?” John’s sarcasm comes through loud and clear in times of stress.

 

“If you wish.”

 

As he closes his eyes, he thinks of Sherlock, the only home he wants.

 

For the first time, John comes back from the dead. After a few days of drifting in and out of consciousness, he wakes to a less than immaculate Sherlock, his hair limp and oily, bags under his eyes. Sherlock breaks down a bit, kisses John and tells him he’ll kill him if he ever does that to him again. John groggily replies, “That is terribly ambitious of you,” and promptly falls asleep. It is a long time before he can go back to Baker Street, but Sherlock is here with him, in the hospital and looks after him.

 

One day, John goes home, wearily climbs the stairs, Sherlock behind him every step. They enter the flat and John sits on the sofa, looking around with fresh eyes, the first time home since he died. Sherlock puts John’s bag away, makes tea and sits beside him, head on his chest makes sure John is really there, really alive, his heart is really beating.

 

John lifts his hand and runs it through Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock sighs, finally able to relax. “John? What was it like?”

 

“What love?”

 

“When you died? What was it like?”

 

“I…” John frowned. “I am not sure I remember. I wasn’t alone, but you weren’t there. I think…I think I told them to send me back.”

 

Sherlock was quiet for a bit.

 

“You know near-death experiences can be biologically explained and have some basis in normal brain function gone awry.”

 

“Yes, love, I know.

 

“John?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Promise me?”

 

“What?”

 

“Promise you will never go where I can’t follow?”

 

“I will do my best, Sherlock. That will be the last time I go without you.”

 

And it is. As John promised the next time, the last time, far in the future, they go together.

 


End file.
